Page 19

CHAPTER TWELVE

AURELIA

T he weight of the pen in my hand is too much, like I’m holding a brick instead of a thin metal tube.

My diary sits open in my lap, a blank page staring up at me, but my mind is as empty as the paper.

No—not empty. Overcrowded. My mind is a storm, so deafening I can’t grasp a single coherent thought.

On top of the mess, is the memory of Lady Harrow’s hand striking my face yesterday. My cheek doesn’t hurt anymore, but something deeper has been damaged. Something important.

I press two fingers against the spot, wondering if shame has a temperature. If someone were to place their palm against my skin right now, would they feel it burning from this new feeling inside me?

It’s strange how the worst kind of pain doesn’t show itself physically. This kind of pain is quiet. More insidious. It slips beneath your ribs and curls around your organs, making a home there.

My body feels foreign and hollow now. Like someone reached in and scooped everything out that made me me , leaving just a husk behind. Every breath I take feels borrowed, each heartbeat mechanical. The humiliation has carved me out, plucking away pieces of my soul like petals from a flower.

He loves me not. He loves me not. He loves me not.

I feel squeezed smaller and smaller until I wonder if I might simply fold into nothingness. Would anyone even notice?

Not Julian. Not after yesterday.

The way he looked at me—or rather, through me. The way he simply sat back down and continued eating his damn breakfast as if I were nothing more than a speck of dust. A mild inconvenience. Something to brush away and forget.

God, that hurts more than Lady Harrow’s slap ever could.

My vision blurs from tears, but I blink them back, refusing to give in. Crying feels like surrender, and I’ve already lost enough ground in this war. But my fingers tremble as they hover over the blank page. Finally, words claw their way out and I start writing.

I’m becoming a ghost in my own ? —

The door swings open without warning, the jarring sound making the pen slip from my grasp. I scramble to grab it, heart racing as two women enter. Maids, from the looks of their simple black dresses. One carries fresh towels and a makeup case, the other a garment bag.

Before I can form a question, a familiar figure fills the doorway behind them, and my entire body seizes .

Julian.

His bruises are still healing, with purple and yellow spreading across his jawline, stitches cutting through his eyebrow, one eye still partially swollen. The coldness in his visible eye cracks everything under my skin.

My heart pounds a desperate rhythm, like it’s trying to escape this fate. To run where my legs can’t. To flee this room. This man. This devastating pull between us that refuses to die even after everything.

The war in my body is immediate and visceral—my skin prickles with awareness, blood rushing to my cheeks even as bile rises in my throat. Part of me wants to launch myself at him, to tear his wounds open with my nails and make him hurt as badly as I do.

Another part—the part I hate most—just wants him to hold me and apologize for yesterday.

Both instincts leave me paralyzed, the diary clutched against my chest like a shield that won’t protect me from what’s coming.

Julian stands with his arms crossed in the doorway, an immovable force blocking any chance of escape.

His expression is blank, hard, as one of the maids gently pulls me to my feet.

I’m too stuck on him—on the way he just stares, as if I’m some puzzle he’s decided is no longer worth solving.

Is his heart really stone now? What does he think of me? How does he see me?

The questions suffocate every other thought until I barely notice the maids easing the diary from my grip and beginning to undress me.

When one maid tries to pull my shirt over my head, I finally snap to attention. I cover myself with shaking hands and a strangled sound rises in my throat. “W- what’s going on?” My voice is barely a whisper, as weak as my knees feel.

Julian only stares, silent, his eyes drilling holes through me.

The older maid glances between us before speaking up. “We’re preparing you for tonight’s event, miss. The Harvest of Wealth festival.”

I blink at her. Tonight? That’s right. Julian’s bitch of a mother said something about that yesterday. But I don’t want to be seen by anyone.

And the vulnerability of their hands tugging at my clothes while Julian stands there watching sends fresh heat coursing through my veins. “Get out,” I demand. “Leave.” But Julian doesn’t move. His refusal to even acknowledge me feels like another slap in the face.

Fury boils over, and I find more strength, more volume. “You motherfucker! You monster! Get the fuck out!” The words echo off the walls, ricocheting back into the quiet he creates around himself. But still, he doesn’t respond.

Fine. I’ll hit him where it hurts.

“Acting just like Lucian,” I spit out. “What’s next? Are you going to beat me too? Bring in men so you can watch them rape me? Why don’t you fully become him already since that’s what you want.”

His eye twitches, but he remains rooted in place, the ghost of something darkening his features before vanishing into that maddeningly blank look again.

“Don’t tempt me,” he finally says. He uncrosses his arms and nods at the maids to proceed.

I stare in disbelief as they resume undressing me with quick, practiced motions.

It should be impossible to feel more exposed than I already do, after Lady Harrow slapped me when it would hurt most—in front of the man I still love.

The man I have too much history with to outright abandon emotionally.

But this might be worse than the slap.

Julian wants to watch others strip me bare like I’m his prize. That’s what I am to him now.

I turn my face away from him and let the maid pull my shirt off. The humiliation is blinding, suffocating, total.

The universe collapses to the sound of fabric sliding against skin and the relentless weight of Julian’s silence filling every corner of the room—every corner of me—until there’s nothing left but that awful void swallowing me whole.

How did we get here, Julian?

I used to feel the beat of your heart against mine as you held me.

The way you’d pull me close like you craved my body too desperately to control yourself.

That man feels like a dream now, while this version of you—this nightmare—is too real.

What did she do to you? Has your mother really twisted you past the point of saving?

Fighting back against the maids feels pointless. I’m outnumbered, outranked, outmatched in every way. If they don’t strip me now, they’ll only call for reinforcements.

My arms fall to my sides, surrendering to their insistent fingers as they peel away the last of my clothing. A chill creeps over me, despite the warmth of the room and the heat flushing my skin. I can’t look at him; I can barely breathe through the shame tightening around my lungs like a vice.

The older maid gestures for me to follow her into the bathroom, and I move like a marionette—halting and stiff, with someone else pulling all the strings. Julian’s presence is a shadow behind me.

When we enter, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m pale from days indoors, and it looks so odd for me to be the only one naked. The younger maid turns on the faucet, steam rising around us as water rushes into a golden clawfoot tub that’s absurdly luxurious for this kind of torture.

“Please,” I say again, softer now but still desperate for some scrap of dignity. I glance at Julian. “Just… please.”

Julian stands there in the doorway, unmoved except for that chilling gaze that follows me everywhere. He shakes his head.

My heart cracks deeper as the maids help me into the bath without a word. It’s like they’ve done this hundreds of times before. As if I’m just another girl being scrubbed clean for sacrifice at one of these goddamn Consortium rituals. I lower myself and the hot water stings.

But I don’t flinch. I can do that much at least.

The maids pour shampoo over my hair and work it into a lather that drips down my face. I squeeze my eyes shut. If there’s any part of Julian left that still cares for me—even a sliver—he’s doing a damn good job hiding it.

I need an escape from this awful reality. From him.

Forcing myself to think of Adrian is almost laughable under these circumstances—but it’s easier than dealing with this horror head-on. I picture him smiling, something rare I only saw a handful of times in over a decade. Then I hold that image in my mind.

He was such a beautiful man. So golden, even with his darkness.

He was cruel, but never cruel enough to put me through this hell.

Two hours later, I’m scrubbed and polished like a prized pony being readied for auction.

The maids worked efficiently and are good at what they do, never meeting my eyes as they bathed me, dried me, arranged my hair in an elaborate updo with delicate gold pins that catch the light.

They’re only doing their job, so I can’t be mad at them for that.

But this ritual felt ceremonial, almost religious—cleansing the unworthy whore to prepare her for sacrifice.

I stare at myself in the large mirror. The Alexander McQueen gown they’ve poured me into is a masterpiece.

Liquid gold silk cascades from a structured bodice adorned with intricate hand-beading, each crystal catching light and fracturing it into a thousand tiny daggers.

The dress alone must cost more than most people make in a year.

And it was tailored precisely to my measurements.

A reminder that even in my captivity, I am still the Golden One.

Still good enough to be dressed in fine garments.

Still a possession worth displaying.

While the maids dressed me, Julian slipped away to change clothes. Now he’s back in the doorway, his bruised face contrasting with his immaculate black suit. His tie is the exact shade of gold as my dress, a detail that I despite. We’re matching. Like we’re a couple instead of predator and prey.

“Follow me,” he says once the maids are gone. His voice is flat, emotionless, like he’s addressing a stranger. Or worse—a servant.

I follow obediently.